


Samasaurus Hex

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-27
Updated: 2007-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Pre-series. Sam is tall, then Dean is tall, and there is much joking on both sides. Also, smut.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Samasaurus Hex  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Summary: Pre-series. Sam is tall, then Dean is tall, and there is much joking on both sides. Also, smut.  
Notes: For [ ](http://star-dancer54.livejournal.com/profile)[**star_dancer54**](http://star-dancer54.livejournal.com/), who made me a lovely banner awhile back. Thank you, darling. This is yours. ♥  
  
  
  
||  
  
Winter is raping the whole world up the ass when it happens.  
  
They've been sleeping in the same room, space heater and ten wool blankets, because the little cabin Dad rented isn't nearly enough to keep out the Wisconsin cold. Eventually, as the days stretch into weeks and Dad sends them postcards and money and stern admonitions to keep out of trouble, the same room becomes the same bed. Dean always goes to sleep on the right side of the bed, Sam already conked out on the left, but somehow they wake up in the morning with their legs and arms all tangled together, huddled under the blankets and sharing warmth.  
  
And it's not _weird_ or anything; at least, it's not any weirder than the fact that their dad is off in Mexico hunting Aztec zombies. It's just them, and Sam doesn't mention it at school and Dean doesn't mention it at work, so it's okay mostly.  
  
Sam gets off school at three the day it happens and slogs down the road through the slushy snow, all the way to Dan and Barry's Auto Shop, where Dean works as a mechanic. He finds him underneath some ugly minivan, clanking noises and cuss words issuing from the space.  
  
"Goddamned _morons_ , driving through salt and ice and expecting everything to work okay. They haven't washed down here in ages, I bet. There's fuckin' mud and, oh, shit, is that a dead _rat?_ "  
  
"Hi, Dean," Sam says dryly, dropping his backpack. "Long day?"  
  
"Hey, Sammy. Ever seen a dead rat lodged in a car's transmission before?"  
  
"No, thanks."  
  
"Dude, seriously, get down here. It's disgusting. I kind of want to leave it in a seat for them to find."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "Psycho."  
  
"You know it." Clanking, and then Dean's rolling out from the car's guts, grinning up at Sam. "Hey there, little bro."  
  
"Hey." Sam drops to his knees and then his butt, sitting Indian-style. "How's things?"  
  
"Moron housewives and full-of-shit teenagers," Dean says. "You?"  
  
"Close to the same thing." Sam grins. "Home?"  
  
"Yeah, hang on." He rolls underneath the car again and whacks some part, making a loud clank reverberate through the garage. "Alright, Barry, it's done!" he hollers, rolling back out again.  
  
Barry pops his head out of his office. "You got that thing running?" he says incredulously.  
  
Dean smirks. "Nah, but it'll limp out of the garage."  
  
"Good enough. See you tomorrow, kid."  
  
"Till then, old man," Dean says, and stands up.  
  
Then it happens.  
  
"What the hell," Dean says, blinking up at Sam. "Are you wearing platform shoes or something?"  
  
"Um. Huh?"  
  
Dean shakes his head. "Never mind, Sam," he says. "C'mon, let's get home before it starts snowing again."  
  
Nose wrinkled in confusion, Sam follows.  
  
The house is beyond freezing when they get back. Theoretically they pay for heat, but the electric company shut down a few days ago thanks to yet another ice storm, so the inside of the house is just as cold, or colder, than the outside.  
  
"Fuck," Dean says, dropping his keys on the counter. "Race you." And he takes off at a run.  
  
"Cheater!" Sam yells after him and gives chase, vaulting over the couch and almost knocking their lone living room lamp over, crashing and banging into the bedroom - where Dean's already lying on the covers, smiling smugly.  
  
"I hate you," Sam grouses, jumping on the bed and punching Dean in the arm.  
  
"Of course you do." Dean kicks his boots off. "Now go turn the heater on."  
  
"What? No!" Sam yanks a blanket over himself and opens his backpack. He's got AP US History homework that really can't wait. "You do it. You got here first."  
  
"Yeah, but I cheated, so it doesn't count."  
  
"Since when?" Sam screeches.   
  
"Since now. Go turn it on."  
  
"Make me."  
  
It's the wrong thing to say, and Sam realizes that a few seconds too late. There's a look of unholy enjoyment on Dean's face when he leaps and tackles Sam, pushing his face into the mattress.  
  
"You fucker!" Sam yells at the pillows, twisting until he manages to get a leg behind Dean's, bucking and pushing until he's flipped Dean over and then jumping on top of him, pinning him to the mattress.  
  
" _Language,_ Sammy," Dean says, but Sam's got a knee in Dean's kidneys, so he just smiles.  
  
"Go turn on the heater," he says, bending down until he's nose-to-nose with Dean.  
  
Dean's tongue pokes out, almost licking Sam's chin. Gross. "You do it," he says.  
  
Sam just raises his eyebrows, digging in his knee hard enough to make Dean gasp.  
  
And there's a second where - no. Because, man, that's gross, even by their dead rat, zombie, hey is that a cockroach in the Campbell's? standards. But for a second he realizes that Dean's face is just a few inches from his and they're cold and starting to sweat from the fight and Sam can feel himself getting hard against Dean's leg.  
  
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says quietly.  
  
Sam blinks.   
  
"You are really fucking tall," Dean finishes, and shoves at him. "Now get offa me."  
  
But Sam doesn't move.  
  
"Sam," Dean says impatiently. "Move your ass."  
  
"Dean," Sam says, and he knows he's starting - something, something important, but it doesn't matter what because the room's freezing so he just sits back and lets Dean turn the heater on.  
  
"Stubborn little dweeb," Dean says, crawling back up the bed and settling against the headboard. "Lemme guess, you've got homework."  
  
"Only a little," Sam says. "It's not like we've got anything better to do, anyway."  
  
"There's always something better to do than homework, dude," Dean says, pulling out his battered old Walkman.  
  
"Metallica tapes aren't more important than homework," Sam snaps, settling back over Dean's lap and opening up his book.  
  
Dean snorts, his arm coming up to rest across Sam's back. "Nothing's more important than Metallica, man."  
  
"Whatever. You're going to be a loser for the rest of your life."  
  
"And you'll be a geek who listens to bad music."  
  
"Do you honestly think I don't know about the Britney Spears CD in your duffel?"  
  
Sam cranes his neck just in time to see Dean's face slowly redden. "Shut the fuck up," Dean mutters.  
  
"Heh," Sam says, but subsides, because he's got a quiz on Monday and the names and dates aren't going to memorize themselves.  
  
He hears the _clickwhirr_ of the tape starting, and then the faint screaming of guitars. Dean bobs his head to the beat of the music, fingers tapping on the mattress. Sam can smell, faintly, grease and motor oil; it’s a car smell, a Dean-smell, and it makes him wiggle closer, running a finger down the way-too-long list of events.  
  
“Nerd,” Dean says affectionately, and his other hand comes to rest on Sam’s back, still tapping out the beat to some dumb rock song.  
  
Sam tries to ignore it, focusing on Lincoln and Booth and _God_ , it’s hard to concentrate with the bass line of “Enter Sandman” being tapped out on his spine. “Dean, could you maybe bug the mattress instead of me?”  
  
“Put up with it, Paul Bunyan.”  
  
Sam blinks. “What?”  
  
“You’re a fucking giant, Sam. Didn’t you notice?” Tap, tap, tap on his spine, and a playful squeeze of the arm resting warm and heavy over his back.  
  
“That’s not funny,” Sam says automatically, but his curiosity is piqued. “Why do you keep doing that, anyway?”  
  
“Doing what?”  
  
“Talking about me like I’m…” He trails off, motions with one hand. “Really big, or something.”  
  
He can almost hear the confusion in Dean’s tapping fingers, the minute shifting of his arm. “Dude, have you looked in a mirror lately? Or, you know, stood next to a normal human being?”  
  
“Yes,” Sam says slowly, not know where Dean’s going with this but pretty sure he’s not going to like it.  
  
“You’re fucking huge,” Dean says.  
  
Sam props himself up on his elbows. “I’m not all that much taller than you are,” he argues. It’s probably a stupid point, but…Dean’s his _big_ brother. The thought of Sam being way taller is just weird.  
  
“Lie beside me,” Dean says challengingly, yanking the headphones till they’re around his neck, music just barely audible.  
  
It’s a dumb enough idea to have Sam rolling his eyes, because seriously, how dumb does Dean think he is? But Dean leans forward and uses the added leverage to pull Sam up by the stomach, scooting them till they’re lying side-by-side, foreheads almost touching.  
  
Or, their foreheads should be touching. Except that their legs are straight and their toes lined up, and Sam’s chin…  
  
Is level with Dean’s hair.  
  
Hunh.  
  
“You’re a _midget,_ ” Sam says, the delight creeping into his voice.  
  
“Shut up,” Dean orders, reaching up to whack Sam in the back of the head.  
  
But Sam rolls off the bed, leaping to his feet, laughing. “I’m taller than you! You’re my little brother!”  
  
“You are crusin’ for a bruisin’,” Dean says, but instead of sounding remotely scary, he sounds like he’s sulking.  
  
“I could beat you up in a _second,_ ” Sam chortles, raising triumphant fists in the air.  
  
“Oh, yeah? Let’s find out.”  
  
And then Dean’s tackling him, arms wrapped around his waist, hands whacking Sam anywhere he can reach. Sam bats at him, tries to push him off, but Dean clings, his chest practically glued to Sam’s back as he gives Sam the worst noogie Sam’s had in…well, at least a week. But still, it _sucks,_ so he bends over with every intention of throwing Dean –   
  
And then Dean’s pushing him back on the bed and turning around and suddenly Sam’s sprawled on top of Dean, pinning him, without the slightest bit of effort.  
  
“Um,” Sam says, and rolls off.  
  
Or at least, he tries to roll off; but Dean’s hands suddenly gripping his shoulders like their utility belts are missing and the Joker’s about to kill them makes it a little harder (bad joke. Bad, _bad_ joke) than he’d thought it would be.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says quietly. “When did you. Fuck.”  
  
“Um, never?”  
  
As soon as it pops out, Sam clenches his jaw shut, because wow: TMI much? But Dean laughs, a kind of half-hysterical titter that has Sam more than a little worried.  
  
“Fuck,” he says, body shaking. “And here I thought repressing it’d work.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam says slowly, still trying and failing to pull away. “What the _hell_ are you talking about.”  
  
It isn't a question.  
  
Dean’s face is all scrunched up, like he’s constipated or something, which is a pretty disgusting image and Sam kind of wants to scrub his brain clean now, or he would if Dean wasn’t pulling him close and…kissing his nostril.  
  
God, they can’t even commit perverted felonies right.  
  
Sam clenches his teeth in a smile and reaches up, pulling Dean closer and kissing him right this time, his lips lightly brushing against Dean’s, his arm sliding around Dean’s body and pulling him snug against Sam. He cups Dean’s head with his hand and then moves it around to, fuck, tilt Dean’s head _up_ and slip his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and then everything’s heated sensation and Sam’s dizzy enough that when Dean pushes them back onto the bed he doesn’t think, just moves.  
  
Dean’s sprawled on top of him and they’re – necking is really the only word for it, Dean kissing him like he’s trying to swallow Sam whole, their breaths mingling, hips grinding together like they were born for this. Sam’s entire world is spinning; it’s like getting caught by a werewolf, deep-down sick panic that makes the edges of reality fuzzy, that makes his skin suddenly the most immediate and important thing in the world, except that this is…different. Better, duh, but also _more_ in a way that has him kind of terrified.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says, sounding like he did the first time he took a drag on a cigarette and Dad caught them, Sam watching Dean worshipfully and Dean hacking up a lung. His voice now is that same scratchy half-panic. “For the love of - Sam. Please don’t tell me you’re not okay with this. I’ll back off if you are but shit, I can’t – Sam.”  
  
And Sam’s looking at Dean, at his desperate eyes and taut body, and – okay, so this is totally stupid and wrong, and he knows it. But Dean wants this, it’s painfully obvious, and Sam...  
  
Is really, _really_ horny.  
  
“Dean,” he says, breath stuttering, hands shaking, because there’s battlefield courage and there’s people-courage, the will to open yourself up and let everyone stare at your guts like a frog on a high school lab table.  
  
So Dean relaxes, body dropping down onto Sam’s, back arching so that their hips fit together, grinding down, inhaling sharply when Sam’s hand slides down his back and onto his ass.  
  
“Get – get up here,” he groans, rocking his hips in between Sam’s dick and Sam’s hand.  
  
He doesn’t have to ask for an explanation, because a second later Dean’s tugging at him, pulling him up and over until Dean’s the one writhing underneath Sam, reaching up and pushing Sam’s arms out until he’s lowered on Dean, covering him completely. Sam drops his head and mouths kisses along Dean’s jaw, his cheekbones, as Dean runs hands up and down Sam’s sides.  
  
“When’d you grow up, Sammy?” Dean whispers, breath stirring the tiny hairs by Sam’s ear. “When’d you get so - _fuck_ \- bigger’n your big bro?”  
  
Dean tastes like sweat, like oil, tangy and gross and right.  
  
Sam’s head is reeling and he’s gasping like he’s just run a marathon, so really, it’s not all that surprising that he doesn’t quite process Dean whispering, “Wish you could see, wish you could know, covering me like a blanket –“  
  
But he definitely notices when he goes from kissing Dean’s neck to kissing Dean’s nipple without moving an inch.  
  
“Oh _God_ ,” Dean hisses, bucking up, “Sam, fuck, don’t –“  
  
Sam freezes.  
  
“Stop,” Dean finishes, raising his head with an almighty glare. “Sam, what the hell?”  
  
“Dean,” Sam says. “Dean, you’re.”  
  
A foot taller than Sam himself. Dean realizes it before Sam can even gesture and yells, pushing Sam off him and falling off the bed in a tangle of sheets.   
  
“I’m a giant! I’m a monster! I’m –“  
  
“My big brother again,” Sam says, laughing, because hey: it’s not exactly the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to them.  
  
Dean’s look is a weird hybrid of disgruntled, disappointed, and smug as hell. “Heh,” he says. “Yeah.”  
  
Sam watches, stifling laughter, as Dean climbs awkwardly to his feet. He looms over Sam and the bed, hair almost brushing the ceiling. “Dude,” Dean says, and reaches out a hand. Sam meets him halfway, pulling himself up; his hand, bigger than Dean’s ten minutes ago, is now dwarfed by Dean’s massive palm and freakishly long fingers.  
  
This is so, so weird.  
  
||  
  
“We gotta figure out how to reverse this,” Dean says, staring at his reflection in what can only be called horror.  
  
“I think it's kind of cool,” Sam says, because it totally is. Dean's gigantic, and he keeps bumping his forehead on things and stubbing his toes and stuff, which is comedy _gold._  
  
Plus also Dean's taller than Sam, and – okay. Sam kind of gets it now, Dean pulling Sam down onto him, because every time Dean stands close to him, Sam feels small. Intimidated.  
  
It's weird and half-new, a memory of big Dean brought into reality again, and it has him turned on pretty much constantly.  
  
“Dude.” Dean's blinking at him. “Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Um, no?”  
  
“I'm _taller than you,_ ” Dean says. “I could totally kick your ass now and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it.”  
  
Dean tripping him, throwing him onto the floor, straddling him and pressing him into the carpet with his weight. Dean pinning his arms to his side, kissing him, fucking him.  
  
Sam turns red and he adjusts his jeans, hoping Dean's having a rare moment of obliviousness.  
  
He's not.  
  
“Well, well, well,” he says, practically cackling, turning away from the mirror. “Got a little something you'd like to tell me, Sammy?”  
  
He'd like to say no, but Dean's sauntering towards him with that arrogant look on his face, and Sam's just not that good a liar. “Uh,” he says, and Dean's _right there,_ crowding up in his personal space, making him feel small and insignificant.  
  
“Does this turn you on?” Dean whispers, hands coming round to cup Sam's head – huge hands, not really Dean's hands, and it makes Sam feel almost lost.  
  
“I don't,” he says, but he never gets a chance to finish because Dean bends _down_ , God, and kisses him.  
  
If Sam was feeling unsettled before then he's fine now, just _fine,_ because Dean's mouth is hot and wet and he's sucking on Sam's tongue and it's every bit as perfect as the time after their first time that they finally got it right, finally learned each other.  
  
He moans into the kiss, stupidly high-pitched, and lets Dean push him against the wall. His neck is craned up, just this side of uncomfortable and definitely very weird, but Dean's shoving a thigh in between his legs and he just goes with it, wrapping his legs around Dean's waist.  
  
“You like this?” Dean asks. It seems like his hands are everywhere at once, sliding down Sam's back, pushing into his pants, rubbing the nape of his neck, teasing the small of his back.  
  
“Asteckishplh,” Sam says, and Dean laughs low and gritty by his ear.  
  
“Think I could get used to this,” he says, and then he's sliding Sam's pants down and wrapping that huge hand around Sam's cock and Sam's entire reality fragments, separated into slivers of _here_ and _now_ and _yes_ and _more._  
  
He comes quietly, Dean's hand covering his mouth, because the neighbors know they're brothers – and the thought brings a second wave, specks dancing behind his eyelids as he convulses, Dean holding him up.  
  
And he's reaching down, ready to finish Dean off, but Dean shakes his head with a lopsided smile; Sam's fingers touch moist jeans.  
  
“Groaty, man,” he says.  
  
“Want to help me clean up?” Dean cocks his head towards the shower, tongue peeking out between his lips lewdly.  
  
“Hell yeah,” Sam says, and follows him into the bathroom.  
  
||  
  
“Stop kicking me.”  
  
Dean looks up from the Waffle House menu and pulls a face. “I'm not,” he says. “Not on purpose, anyway.”  
  
“Well then, stop kicking me accidentally.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Dean says, and Sam goes back to studying the omelet options.  
  
He's adding up the price of ham, cheese, and mushrooms in his head when Dean's foot nudges his leg again.  
  
“ _Dean,_ ” he snaps, sounding like the kind of annoyed housewife at the supermarket whose daughter Dean inevitably hits on.  
  
“Shut the hell up, Spammy,” Dean says irritably. “It's not like I'm trying to drive you up the wall or anything.”  
  
Weirdly enough, he looks totally innocent. Sam squints at him. “Why do I not believe you?”  
  
If Dean was lying, this would be when he grinned; but he just shrugs sullenly. “Because your hair's finally started eating your brains?” he suggests.  
  
“Hah, hah.”  
  
They order their food and Sam stares out the window while they wait for it to arrive. The sky is heavy and gray; they're probably going to get rain today. It's a complete cop-out that he's thinking about the _weather,_ of course, but...  
  
“Here you go, boys.” The waitress interrupts his thoughts, plopping their plates down, never taking her eyes off of Dean. Sam rolls his eyes. Girls stared before, but now that Dean's a super-tall mutant freak, they can't take their eyes off him.  
  
It's got Dean grinning like mad, of course, and Sam's starting to feel as grumpy as Dean was before. It's not like they're _dating_ , or whatever, but when Sam takes out Sandra or Larissa or Michelle he kisses her on the cheek goodnight and doesn't call her again, and when Dean flirts with Cindy or Kelly or Gina he never fucks them. They've never talked about it, though, any more than they've talked about the growing tension between them; Sam's starting to think it doesn't mean more to Dean than Amanda, two years and five states ago, does.  
  
He grits his teeth and digs into his omelet. “So,” he says, chewing, “I figure we should ask the local coven. If they're not the culprits, and they're probably not, then I bet they know who did it.”  
  
“I dunno.” Dean's looking past Sam's shoulder at the ass of yet another waitress. “I could get used to this. Chicks dig tall guys.”  
  
Sam breaks his fork.  
  
“Dude, what, are you epileptic now?” Dean hands him another fork. “Quit twitchin'.”  
  
“Then stop flirting,” Sam says through gritted teeth, and almost bites his own tongue off.  
  
Dean's mouth quirks up. “Really. So maybe the curse isn't such a great thing, huh?”  
  
Sam is going to force Nutrigrain bars on the bastard for a _month_ if this keeps up.  
  
“I never said that,” he says loftily, and takes a huge bite of omelet.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Dean says, looking openly suspicious. It's really kind of disturbing, because this is Dean, whose idea of subtlety is using a 2x4 instead of a gun. “So, how 'bout you tell me what's really bothering you?”  
  
Rigging a jack wouldn't be that hard. One morning, a car could just fall on Dean's head. Totally accidental.  
  
“Nothing,” Sam snaps.  
  
“Right.” Dean's grin looks like it could devour whole states. “You don't like it, do you?”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes, then realizes a second too late that he's probably given up the game. “Uh,” he says. “I'm fine with it. I think it's funny, actually. Hilarious.”  
  
“You're _jealous!_ ” Dean crows.  
  
Maybe a van. Or a diesel truck. Yeah.  
  
“You're jealous of all the attention I'm getting! Oh, dude, this is just too fucking good.”  
  
“I am not,” Sam protests, approximately a million years too late.  
  
“You are!” Dean says, and the table actually rattles when he laughs, his entire body shaking. “Your ears are practically green, man. That's kind of pathetic.”  
  
“I'm going to hurt you,” Sam promises, feeling his cheeks turn red.  
  
“Uh-huh.” Dean quirks an eyebrow, actually looking down his nose at Sam. “I'd like to see you try, Shorty.”  
  
_Shorty?_  
  
Sam can feel the blood rushing to his head. This is the absolute _last straw._ He isn't going to take any more of this. Furious, he grabs the first thing he could lay a hand on and throws it at Dean's head.  
  
It's kind of funny, in retrospect, that the thing to break the spell is a dirty little Waffle House salt shaker.  
  
||  
  
“So,” Dean says, running his tongue up Sam's spine, “you happy now?”  
  
Sam gasps, twists. “What--”  
  
“Me. Shorter than you.” Wet kisses at the base of his neck, hands on his hips. “Figured you'd be jumping for joy.”  
  
“Hmm.” Sam suddenly heaves up, grabbing Dean and rolling them both over until he's covering Dean, pushing him into the mattress, in a move identical to the one he did three days ago.  
  
Dean's breath _snaps_ into his lungs and his body jerks, fingers tightening on Sam's arms.  
  
“Bastard,” he says.  
  
Sam laughs and shivers, a draft of cold air caressing his skin. “Duh,” he says with a grin.  
  
Dean pulls him down tighter and their lips meet: hot, wet, sending tingling feelings all through Sam until he's too saturated with it to do anything but groan.  
  
“Freak,” Dean says affectionately.  
  
“Yep,” Sam says, and pats Dean's head. He grins at Dean's squawk of indignation. “Love you, too.”


End file.
